


Sun under Moon

by greerwatson



Category: The Enchanted Castle - Edith Nesbit
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21966976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: What became of the living statues after the wishing ring lost its magic?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	Sun under Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been inspired by the Yuletide tag set. When I came to write it, though, I realized that my idea was completely incompatible with aurilly's prompts. So I made no attempt to fatten it up to 1K, and put it here in Madness instead.

When the last wish was spoken, all the magic the ring had wrought was undone. The wish itself was free; but that was its price. Afterwards, pieces of the castle were missing; so were many of the statues in the garden. It was now impossible to pass through a secret door at the back of the Temple of Flora. The Hall of Granted Wishes was no more, for there were no more wishes.

Still, not all of the extraordinary events of that summer could be attributed to the ring. The gods of antiquity have their own past; and the brotherhood of marble, as Phoebus called it, is yet another magic. So the statues of the gods still feast each night by the sevenfold reflections of the moon in the pool on the island in the lake. And, one night in every year, at the festival of the harvest, a perfect moonbeam strikes upon the altar of the temple.

After the magic of the ring was broken, the children always said their tales were fabrication. The narrator of their story averred that it was purest truth. They cannot both be right. Either the children deliberately denied their adventures; or else they forgot them entirely as the last wish was spoken.

Phoebus, on the other hand, did not forget. He was marble, which lasts centuries; and he was god, who lasts forever. All the gods remembered the story of the magic ring and the last wish; but only he, who had befriended them, remembered Mabel and Kathleen, Gerald and Jimmy. After them, there came no other mortals with a magic to let them see statues come to life. Nor did anyone from Yalding Castle ever come to the garden on the night of the harvest moon, when any mortal may see statues walk and and crave the answer to a riddle. When all is said and done, the children might have the run of the place in the day; but, at night, they were expected to be tucked up in their beds—and they no longer had any idea that there were temptations to draw them outside. As for Lord Yalding and his bride, they had better things to do at night.

Still Phoebus hoped for many years that the children might somehow find a new magic—perhaps some amulet, or phoenix, or fairy—to allow them the power to become living marble or grant enchantment to their eyes so they might once again see true. Each night, the first moonbeam would bring him to life. But he would wait in the landscaped garden near the castle yearning for his friends. Finally, though, he’d leap from his pedestal, run to the lake, swim thrice round its reeded shores, and cross to the island to be greeted by the other Olympians. And, each night, there would be someone who would say, “Late again, Phoebus!”

He spent the day as god in statue. Kathleen had found this to be a comfortable state, waiting motionless for the moon to bring her stone to life: to her, the marble was not cold or hard; she was not stiff or cramped. Certainly, Phoebus could see and hear, as she had. Children played on the grass, lovers sat by his plinth; squirrels ran across his shoulders. (We shall not mention the activities of dogs and birds.) Of course, he could not spring down to join them; but they were company of a sort.

He rejoiced in the garden, whatever the time of year: the blue summer sky, the gusts of autumn, the soft snow blanket of winter, and the gentle showers of spring. All were the same to him in daylight. Stone does not feel; and, under the light of the sun, the Sun-God was stone.

Only under the light of the moon did Phoebus come alive.


End file.
